the saddle. But, just as Forsetta was
uncoiling a rope which he carried round his waist, she raised herself
upon the horse's neck, towering over young Mazzani and, raising her
arm, struck him full in the chest with her dagger. The Indian fell
like a stone against Forsetta; and, when the latter had released
himself and made as though to continue the struggle on his own
account, Dolores was already before him, threatening him point-blank
with her rifle, which she had recovered:

"Clear out," she said. "You too, Mazzani, clear out."

Mazzani obeyed and flew off at a gallop. Forsetta, his features
convulsed with rage, withdrew with deliberate steps, leading the
second horse. Dolores called to him:

"Leave that horse, Forsetta! This moment . . . or I fire!"

He dropped the bridle and then, twenty paces farther on, suddenly
turned his back and fled as fast as he could run.

Simon was impressed not so much by the incident itself--a mere episode
in the great tragedy--as by the extraordinary coolness which the girl
had displayed. When she came to release him, her hands were cold as
ice and her lips quivering:

"He's dead," she faltered. "The young Mazzani is dead. . . ."

"You had to defend yourself," said Simon.

"Yes . . . yes . . . but to take a man's life . . . how horrible! I
struck instinctively . . . as though I were acting for the films: you
see, we rehearsed this scene a hundred times and more, the four of us,
the Mazzanis, Forsetta and I, in the same way, with the words and
gestures in the same order. . . . Even to the stab! It was young
Mazzani himself who taught me that; and he often used to say: 'Bravo,
Dolores! If ever you play the kidnapping-scene in real life, I'm sorry
for your adversary!'"

"Let's hurry," said Simon. "Mazzani may try to avenge his brother's
death; and a man like Forsetta doesn't easily give up. . . ."

They continued on their way and once more came upon the cable. Simon
went on foot, abreast of Dolores. By turning his head a little, he
could see her sad face, with its crown of black hair. She had lost her
broad-brimmed hat, as well as her bolero, which was strapped to the
saddle of the horse stolen by Mazzani. A silk shirt revealed the
modelling of her breasts. Her rifle was slung across her shoulders.

Once more the region of streaked stone extended to the horizon, dotted
with wrecks as before and crossed by the wandering shapes of looters.
Clouds hung overhead. From time to time